


Under Closed Heaven

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-26
Updated: 2011-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:55:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For tf_rare_pairing weekly request "Wing/Drift Why do you live alone?"</p>
    </blockquote>





	Under Closed Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> For tf_rare_pairing weekly request "Wing/Drift Why do you live alone?"

Drift stood on the edge of Wing’s balcony for a long time, staring at the city around him. The lights mounted in the stone, on the buildings, were slowly burning on, changing the glittering darkness into a feeble, artificial dawn. Around him—below him, above him—mechs began a shift changeover, tramways beginning to bustle, the last of the latenight revelers staggering their way home. A perfect city, he thought, watching the almost seamless movements, as though the whole city was one intricate, orchestrated dance. A place for everyone.

Except him.

He didn’t belong here. He had no purpose. No place. A point of stillness in the circulating city, a blockage in its smooth function.

He cast a glance back through the barrier. He couldn’t see Wing, from here, the interior swallowed in a cozy, plush darkness. The jet was still in recharge, luxuriating in the sleep of the innocent, sprawled over the berth in perfect innocence.

What was Drift holding him back from? What disorder had he brought to the smooth flow of the jet’s life?

He gave a soft growl, that got lost in the soothing hum of the waking city. He dropped down to sit on the balcony, leaning back against the siderailing. The city lay open to his left, the lip of the landing pad falling away into the open sky. Like sitting on the edge of the universe, he thought. Openness, light, space. So different from the gutters with their smell, and pressing darkness.

And he was crouching in the same way as he had back then, as though he had never left: forearms bracing on his thighs, head bowed, knees drawn up to take up as little space as possible, draw as little attention as possible.

“You’re up early.” Wing’s voice was gentle, one white ankle stepping into view. Drift looked up as Wing held out a cube of energon.

He grunted, his fingers wrapping around the cube. “Didn’t want to bother you.” More than I already do.

Wing smiled, drowsily, dropping to sit across from Drift, holding his own cube. “You’re not a bother, Drift.”  
He looked out over the city. “We tried to make it as beautiful as we could,” he said, quietly.

Drift shrugged. It was beautiful. And peaceful. And happy.

And not his.

“Why that?” he said, jerking his chin at one of the solar-simulator lights.

Wing took a sip of his energon. “The light?” He looked around. “To remind us of Cybertron. Daylight. Sunlight. Freedom.” His gaze wandered to the stone ceiling. “It’s silly and sentimental, I suppose. But surely you do that on your ships?”

Drift shook his head. “Dark, mostly. Energy conservation protocols.”

Wing tilted his head. “You live entirely in darkness.” His voice was sad, his smile fading. He shifted one foot forward, the elegant tapered toe plate bumping gently against Drift’s as though in some kind of sympathy.

Drift shrugged. “It’s fine.” Just like Wing, to think touch fixed everything, soothed every hurt. Some gaps were too big to be bridged by a small toe plate. Still, he didn’t move his foot away, accepting the gesture for its intent.

“Do you miss the sunlight?” Wing took another sip before laying his cube aside. The red flashes of the stabilizers on his knees jutted between them.

“No. See it during planetfall plenty.” Drift toyed with his cube, rolling it between his hands. Everything was so different here: energon, whenever he wanted it, not closely rationed, not graded by rank or merit. They were told it was an incentive to improve, to climb to the higher levels. And Drift had believed that, had doggedly fought his way up to command grade before realizing the truth: rationing was…because the resources were so limited.

“So…only during combat.”

Drift shrugged, his spaulder grating at the railing behind him. “See it more than I ever did on Cybertron.” In the gutters, daylight never penetrated, the air was thick with dinginess, as though dirt itself were a quality of light.

Wing rocked forward, suddenly, planting one palm on the ground between Drift’s knees, the other hand cupping his face, planting a gentle kiss on Drift’s mouth. Drift could taste the energon, his mouth opening, startled at the suddenness. Wing pulled away, slowly, his hand stroking gently down the gold swell of Drift’s buccal armor, optics warm and dancing alive, like the sunlight he had dreamed of on Cybertron. The sunlight he had fought for the right to stand beneath.

“What was that for?”

“You just looked lonely.” Wing tipped forward again, mouth seeking Drift’s, removing the need for any answer other than opening into the kiss.

“Not lonely,” Drift said, tilting his head away. Loneliness was weak. The helpless. Those who needed others. Drift didn’t need anyone.

Wing pulled back, rolling back to lean against the balcony, hiding—or trying to—the hurt in his optics by gazing out over the city. He swung one of his legs over the edge, letting his foot dangle into space, kicking it idly back and forth. “Everyone gets lonely, Drift.”

“Do you?” Two back-vowels, spat like weapons.

“Of course I do.” Wing’s smile crumbled around the edges. “Loneliness isn’t a matter of having others around you.” For a long moment, no words passed between them, only the steady tempo of Wing’s swinging foot, marked by the red flag of the stabilizer jutting off his knee. “It’s…you not feeling connected to anything. Or feeling that nothing’s connected to you.” The mouth pressed into a rare, flat expression, before Wing reached for the cube of energon he’d laid aside.

Drift reached to toy with his own cube. “You’re connected to everything here, Wing. You’re a knight.”

“That’s my job, not me.”

“You’re friends with everyone.” Drift didn’t mention the fact that ‘friends’ seemed to go pretty far in Wing’s book. He was jealous enough of the one or two mechs he knew for sure were former lovers.

“That’s…,” Wing shifted uncomfortably. “That’s not me, either. Not really.”

Drift frowned. What did Wing want, then? Drift had…neither. No connections to anyone but Wing here, and definitely nothing as intimate. It was the most intimate relationship he’d ever had in his life. And it wasn’t good enough? “Well, then? What?”

Wing stared at his own swinging knee for a long moment. The false daylight had brightened enough by now that shadows were beginning to grow and stretch, light, gouache things that seemed cushions for the brighter highlights. “I think it’s the past. Everyone else wants to forget it. I…I guess I want that, too, but I can’t.” He looked up, his gold optics coruscating with emotion. “I can’t.”

It was the look in those optics, pleading, sorrowful, that broke Drift, and he jerked forward, snatching at Wing’s arm to haul him back against him. He spread his legs, settling the jet between them, pulling the wings back against his chassis, arms wrapping around Wing’s waist. “I can’t either,” he whispered, as though it were only safe to talk this way, without Wing's kind gaze, and even then, at a whisper. He couldn’t forget the past—either of the gutters or of his time in the Decepticons. He wished he could. But they were who he was, part of everything he thought and felt and understood to be true about the world.

Wing seemed to shiver against him, one hand slowly coming up to brush Drift’s face, over his shoulder. “I know.” He rocked softly, a sort of slow-motion nestling into the embrace. “You understand,” Wing murmured, tipping his head back against Drift’s shoulder, one hand dropping to rest on Drift’s hands clasped over his midsection, as they watched the artificial daylight thicken and spread over the city, as though painting something real.


End file.
